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The club is too loud, too crowded, bodies on top of bodies, strobing lights, thumping music, and Ilya was over it. Especially because Shane’s attention is being taken by another man.
It was usually the opposite, Ilya wanting to party and get drunk and Shane wanting to leave or have one drink and call it a night. Ilya only came because it mattered to Shane. He wanted to go home for once and spend the night on their own. But, Shane wanted to have a night out with the team as the season came to a close, on-going to the final round before winning the cup which is practically theirs already. And who was Ilya to deny his husband a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity?
And it was fine.
It was.
All until some guy, smiling too wide and standing too close, starts talking to Shane like Ilya isn’t even fucking there.
Shane laughs at his terrible pick up line, distracted, and Ilya’s restraint starts to unravel. Shane's his, and this dude wouldn’t know what hit him in the two seconds it would take for Ilya to knock his teeth in.
He tries to play it cool, but his jaw’s clenched, and his fifth drink of the night untouched. His hand finds Shane’s waist when Shane passes by him to call down to the bartender, his grip just a little too tight.
“You okay?” Shane asks, slightly tipsy. Shane’s cheeks are a perfect shade of flushed and he looks fucking good. Shane always does, but especially now. Shane looks at him, actually looks at him, and it's not just jealousy in his eyes. It's hunger, pain, and something dangerously close to need.
Ilya opens his mouth to respond, but is interrupted by none other than fucking Chase, or whatever the fuck his name is, opening his mouth and crowding around Shane.
"etot chertov paren'." Ilya swears in Russian under his breath, yet not unheard by Shane.
This fucking guy.
"Alright, baby. What'cha ordering? 's on me, superstar." Fucking Chase smirks. He pulls out his wallet, pulls out a couple bills, and waves down the bartender.
Shane’s eyes clock Ilya's frustration. Anyone five to ten feet from the group would be able to sense how his fucking fuse is about to snap. Shane’s eyes glance to the rest of the team and they look actually concerned. They meet Shane’s glance, each of their eyes widen in a split second, then turn away with a smirk on their faces to talk amongst themselves.
Shane's eyes focus back on Ilya and he swallows. Ilya looks scary. The kind of scary that makes Shane’s stomach furl with heat.
Ilya’s restraint snaps when fucking Chase reaches for Shane’s waist for the one-too-many-th time tonight.
"Time is up. Bye-bye." Ilya says, grabbing Shane by his waist and pulling him away.
Fucking Chase turns to face him as they’re both walking away with a kind-of look that is really asking for his ass to be beat into the concrete outside of the bar. He opens his mouth, but they’re both too far to hear whatever the fuck nonsense spills out of his mouth.
He pulls Shane into a low-lit hallway, then into the bathroom. The chords of The Black Eyed Peas's Just Can't Get Enough start to thrum through the walls, but it's muffled. He locks the door, then braces both hands on the sink, facing Shane, breathing hard.
His cheeks are flushed. Jaw tight. Eyes dark.
“So you are looking for a new husband?” he mutters, not quite looking at Shane. “He seems very … compatible, da?”
“I wasn’t, he wasn’t —” Shane stops himself. “You were right there.”
“I — he — you,” Ilya condescends, mocking him. His hands are white-knuckling the sink behind Shane. The sink groans, but that's the least of Shane's problems right now. “Still he tried it. In front of me.”
Shane blinks. “So you’re mad at me now?”
Ilya shakes his head, frustrated, like Shane's missing the point. “I am mad,” he pauses. “That he thought he could. That he looked at you like you were –” he cuts off, trying to find the English words. “Like I was not standing right there with my hand on you.” He emphasizes his point by moving his hand to Shane's waist and gripping, pulling them flush at the waist.
Ilya runs his other hand through his hair, Shane's face a hair's width apart. “Mne sledovalo yego udarit'.” He grits his teeth, nostrils flaring and English failing him.
I should’ve hit him.
Shane swallows audibly. He’s not fluent in Ilya’s tongue and never will be, no matter how much he learns and is taught by his husband. But God, it’s the sexiest thing he has ever heard.
Ilya pulls back a bit and looks at Shane, really looks, and it’s written all over his face: jealousy, fury, something deeper and more dangerous underneath.
“You do not get it,” he continues quietly. “He was not just being an asshole. He was trying to take something that is mine.”
The room feels smaller now. Hotter.
Shane gasps softly, but not uncertain.
Ilya’s gaze drops to Shane's mouth. “Da,” he mutters. “You are.”
It happens in under a second. Their lips clash in a hungry need to feel each other's mouths, tongues meeting in the middle. It’s messy, needy, fucking sloppy.
Ilya’s hands grip Shane's waist as if he's trying to mold their bodies together, fuse into one. Shane's hands grip Ilya’s face, pulling him onto himself as if they’re miles apart. Ilya’s lips leave Shane's, trailing his jawline and down his neck. Shane tries to chase him, but Ilya’s hand comes up and grips Shane's jaw, keeping him in place.
"Does not know how you sound when you are falling apart, does not know how to touch you. Ty moy." Ilya’s voice is low, switching between English and Russian, strained with the control he's barely holding onto in between the kisses he leaves on Shane's skin. Not just lust, but a fuck ton of emotion that’s been simmering beneath the surface all night.
You’re mine.
The music through the walls seems to get louder, the walls shaking, the song hitting its peak. It makes the situation at hand twenty times hotter and it's almost like one of Shane's personal fantasies come to light. Shane whimpers at the assault on his skin, gripping him for more more more.
Ilya’s hand travels from Shane's waist and down to the waistband of Shane’s jeans, slips under it and over the front of his boxers. Shane moans softly as he feels Ilya’s fingers rub teasingly over Shane's clothed cock.
"Hmm," Ilya hums close to Shane's ear. "Hard already? Me getting mad turns you on this much, yes?" he teases.
"Could be from him," Shane snipes. Shane's hips jerk towards Ilya’s hand, wanting him to just fucking touch his dick. "God, he was hot, too. Offered to buy me a drink, called me superstar. Knows how to treat a guy right." Shane smirks to himself.
Ilya’s hand on Shane's boxers slips inside quickly, running his hand over Shane's cock, and wraps around him. Shane gasps loudly at the feeling, hips fucking up into his fist.
"O, ya uveren," he agrees flatly, ready to go band-for-band with whatever Shane has ready to go with. "With his big wad of fifteen dollars in his wallet and using the most common pet-name in the world." His wrist tightens and moves faster around Shane's cock at his words, his hand pumping the way he knows Shane loves.
Oh, I’m sure.
"Oh, fuck." Shane whimpers at the feeling of Ilya’s hand around him. His cock is leaking in his fucking boxers, fucking into his husband’s grip. Ilya’s other hand still has Shane's face in place, his bicep flexing through the very expensive black button-up.
"Want me to go find him? He might want to join, let me just– " Ilya’s hands and body remove completely from Shane's body and Shane stumbles. Shane's entire weight was being supported by him and his legs forgot how to fucking work.
And Ilya's actually turning around and walking to the door and his hand actually reaches around the handle —
"What the — No! Ilya! What the fuck?" Shane exclaims, the bottom of his shirt wrinkled, jeans and boxers rumpled around the tops of his thighs, hair a mess, red fingerprints on Shane's jawline and Ilya thinks this is the sexiest Shane's ever looked.
"Chto? Oh, I am sorry. I thought you wanted him. From the way you humped into my hand while talking about him, I thought I would be doing superstar-hockey-player-Shane Hollander a favor." He was half turned towards Shane, faux innocence and confusion on his face, his thumb pointed behind him to the door.
What?
He’s being an asshole and Shane gets it. Shane understands and it's so fucking sexy that Ilya gets possessive about him, it's eating him from the inside out. And Shane knows that Ilya wants him to admit defeat; wants Shane to plead for him and beg for him and him only.
"No. No, come on. Please — you know I don't," Shane stumbles over his words, thoughts running haywire. "Only want you, please, Ilya. Only ever you." Shane braces himself on the lopsided sink behind himself as Ilya makes quick steps towards him.
Shane clocks the clenching of Ilya’s jaw before he ends up placing both hands on Shane's waist and spins him around, now facing the mirror. His hand wraps around Shane's throat possessively while his other hand goes back into Shane's boxers and pulls his pants and underwear down with so much force that the sound of threads ripping are heard and fall loosely around his thighs.
Shane whines in the back of his throat when he hears the clanking of Ilya’s belt buckle being undone, eyes fluttering shut at the overwhelming feeling of him surrounding Shane.
"Is okay," Ilya all but mutters. "Will carve my name on your chest so next time everyone will know you are mine." He rasps into Shane's ear and reaches down to the plug that's been nestled in Shane’s hole for the last three hours and pulls it out slowly before setting it on the pile of paper towels on the sink, glistening from the excess lube in the bathroom lighting.
Shane groans at the feeling of being empty, but it doesn’t last long because Ilya slides in seconds later. They both moan at the new feeling, Ilya settling into Shane, his hips flush with Shane's ass. So deep.
"Sucking me in, yebat'. Ty sozdana dlya menya, molded to take me." Ilya grunts into Shane, both languages slipping in and out. His hips set a steady pace in and out of Shane's hole, the plap! sound between the two of them echoing louder and louder in the small bathroom.
Fuck … You were made for me.
Shane opens his eyes and looks into the mirror and his knees buckle at the sight. Ilya’s head is down to look in between the two of them, his curls falling loosely on his forehead, his arm looking sleek in the shitty bathroom lighting, his bicep literally threatening to rip the sleeve at the seams, but oh so erotic with his hand wrapped around Shane's throat. Shane's hair is a mess, his cheeks flushed from the alcohol and Ilya’s words, lips red and slick with spit, sweat beading his hairline. It's so hot and sexy and Shane just knows he’s going to come the hardest he ever has.
Ilya’s head raises and meets Shane's eyes in the mirror. He stops his thrusts and moves himself even closer to Shane, pressing the sides of their faces together. Shane feels so full, so bloated. Like Ilya’s genuinely ripped through past Shane's guts and into his fucking stomach.
Ilya’s mouth drops open a bit as Shane clenches around him and he gathers his haunches, his grip all around Shane tightening.
"Does not have shit on me. No one does. I do not fuck around with what is mine," he pants. Ilya continues his torturous pace. "I am the only one who treats you right, the both of you."
Shane nods his head dumbly, noticing the way Ilya mentions Shane and – fuck, his cock? His ass? – as best as he can with the hold on his neck. Shane meets his thrusts, grinding back on him and not wanting this feeling to ever end.
"Skazhi eto." he says firmly. Ilya’s words go in one ear and out the other, Shane's brain not processing what he says until Shane feels the hand around his throat jostle his neck the slightest bit and Ilya repeats himself. "Fucking say it."
Say it.
Shane's mouth drops open in a silent scream, and gives him what he needs. "Yours." Shane whimpers out.
Ilya’s eyes roll back and he goes feral. His cock slips in and out of Shane's hole at such a fast pace, Shane's hips bounce off the edge of the sink ever so slightly to the point where he will see bruises from the assault. Ilya’s moans get louder and more guttural, his biceps flexing. Almost as if he's a splinter away from truly losing control and using his true strength on Shane.
But this isn't the place where he can do that. Only ever in their bedroom.
"Oh, oh my god. Ilya, malysh. Please." Shane pleads, using the pet-name he knows lights his lover up. Ilya’s cock hits Shane's prostate perfectly. He pleads for what exactly? Shane doesn't know. To come? For Ilya to not stop? To keep Shane in this exact moment for a millennium to come?
"Da. Take it, moya lyubov'. Think he can hear how you are crying for me? Kak eto zvuchit, kogda ya tebya trakhayu?" he says with a smirk. And Shane doesn't even realize he’s crying until Ilya says it. Tears streaming down Shane's face and brimming his lids.
My love … How it sounds when I fuck you?
Shane nods his head again, the feeling low in his belly threatening to snap. He’s so close, so fucking close. Shane starts to cry harder because the thought of Ilya stopping now for whatever reason will legitimately cause Shane to break.
"Nngh — takoi chertovski neryashlivyi." Ilya brokenly moans. His head drops, breaking eye contact from the mirror. And Shane… Shane knows that one. It causes him to break completely, as well as the constant fucking into his prostate making his legs tremble and his body to give over. Shane's moans flow from his mouth constantly, a broken, high pitched whimper Shane didn’t think he could’ve ever made. So fucking close.
So fucking sloppy.
"'m gonna — Ilya, 'm gonna come." Shane moans, or he thinks he does. His tongue is as slow as molasses. Ilya’s hand moves from Shane's waist and slides to his neglected cock, gliding a palm deliciously across Shane's weeping slit before wrapping his hand around him and jerking him off.
"Come for me, moya lyubov'. Say my name when you do," Ilya’s hand and hips don’t stop. "Scream it so he knows he will never get the chance, superstar." He drills into Shane four more times and Shane’s composure snaps.
Shane moans Ilya’s name so loudly, his entire body shakes. His knees buckle, his eyes roll to the back of his head. Drool drips from the corner of his mouth and his head falls back against Ilya’s shoulder. If it weren't for the six-foot-three muscular tank fucking his all into Shane, Shane would actually look like he were getting possessed.
And well, Shane was. In more ways than one.
"Da, there it is. Cream on my cock." Ilya grits through his teeth. The feeling of Shane's hole fluttering around him and Shane's cum dripping down his inner thighs and balls has him pounding into Shane four more times before stilling inside of him, filling him to the fucking brim with his cum.
Shane moans softly as he feels his husband spill inside of him. And everything goes quiet except for the sounds of their heavy breathing and the booming bass through the walls. Ilya lets go of Shane's neck gently, placing soft kisses all over where he can reach and places his hands on his waist before pulling out, not before giving a few more thrusts and watching as his cum fucks in and out of his hole.
A sickening pop! sounds and Shane feels Ilya’s cum start to slowly ooze out. Shane bites his lip at the feeling and whimpers softly, clenching his hole to not let any escape before Ilya eases the plug back into him, keeping his cum where it belongs.
It takes about ten minutes to clean both of them up and make Shane somewhat presentable before leaving the bathroom, chirping and swatting at each other.
They find the team after a few minutes talking up a couple of girls and random guys – probably fans, asking about their nerves or excitement for the final game, or wanting a chance to take one of them home and say they’ve had the privilege of sleeping with an Ottawa Centaur – all of them clearly drunk, so much so not noticing they’ve been absent for a while. Ilya steps away to get drinks, leaving Shane to try to get himself back together.
Until Shane clocks one of the guys as fucking Chase from earlier.
And the first thing Ilya says when returning to Shane's side?
"etot chertov paren'." And swallows his Vodka in one gulp, cracking his neck, and fucking makes his way over to him.
This fucking guy.
It's going to be a long night.